


Breathe

by Amythe3lder



Series: Irregular Pieces [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asperger's Syndrome, Autism, M/M, Synesthesia, sensory processing disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3944662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amythe3lder/pseuds/Amythe3lder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Prompt: Bouquet</strong><br/>"Not in front of my eyes, but behind them," he tried to explain, "It's more associative."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts).



> This takes place soon after chapter 9 of _Happiness Shared_ , but can be read without prior knowledge.
> 
> Breathe, breathe in the air  
> Don't be afraid to care  
> Leave but don't leave me  
> Look around and choose your own ground  
> "Breathe"-Pink Floyd

Roses smelled orange, and Mycroft didn’t know why. Well, no. He understood about the frequent comorbidity of perception issues and… the other thing. What he found puzzling was that roses _didn’t_ register a deep shade of pink, as the name would suggest. Likewise, the scent of oranges actually put him in mind of a crisp yellow. He avoided gardenias at any cost; their odour turned up a rather garish and violent neon chartreuse and gave him a headache. Some things were not worth bearing.

He must have put his experiences into words at some point, as he could recall his younger brother insisting that he elaborate. Once his curiosity was sated, Sherlock (with the casual rudeness of a child of five years) had remarked that Mycroft was especially well-equipped to pick up on all sorts of smells and wandered off to fixate on something else. He never meant to tell anyone outside of his family. It was, blessedly, not a terribly distracting phenomena as his version of the disorder took place in his head. At any rate, he was so accustomed to it that it hardly surprised him anymore.

Unless he was off-guard. (He tried never to be so.)

Since the onset of his official relationship with Gregory Lestrade, he had been rather pleased to find himself being wooed. After nearly a decade of their unfulfilling (though satisfying) arrangement, he had assumed that he knew how this would play out. He had not expected Greg to be so adept at romantic gestures. On one of their first proper dates couple of months ago, his darling had arrived with a small bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley tucked secretly into his satchel. Upon being presented with the tiny fragrant bells, Mycroft had been so unprepared that he'd said, "How very blue!" He had immediately attempted to backpedal, but his clever inspector had peered at him shrewdly and he'd fallen silent.

"We had-" Gregory began, "years back- a bloke called on his neighbor for playing her music where he could hear it. Said it hurt his skin, that when he'd explained she just laughed and turned it up. Sythesisia?"

"Synaesthesia," Mycroft had corrected on a breath he could scarcely push out.

Greg had nodded, "That's it! You would know, eh?"

"Yes," he'd admitted, "I suppose I would."

Today, his lover was seeking to entertain them both and to distract Mycroft from his healing injuries. Gregory was setting up a makeshift easel by tucking a heavy book into the open cover of another on a table in the attic, and testing how much pressure it could take without sliding. Mycroft sat gingerly next to him, ever-aware of the sharp ache in his broken rib if he moved or inhaled too quickly. Greg gave him a measuring look and asked again if he wouldn't be more comfortable on the sofa downstairs, which he denied heartily. (The lighting was better up here, and he was _not_ an invalid.)

"Right then," Greg said, not at all fooled but willing to drop it. "I've brought some things... here," he said, and set the table before them with a bowl of what Mycroft recognised as Molly Hooper’s lamb stew and a short, stone vase of flowers. "The soup is for eating; the flowers are for sniffing. You tell me what colour they smell, and I'll paint them."

Before Mycroft spoke, he considered that this would open up an avenue of conversation that was bound to be a bit revealing. He went ahead with it on the grounds that if this partnership was going to work, he would have to trust this man with more than his body. (And he did, didn't he?) "Why?"

"Because I want to know what you see," Greg replied, and Mycroft felt vaguely scandalised at the carelessness with which Gregory gave himself away. He continued, "I did a spot of research, so now I know what to ask: you get a visual feedback from smells, yeah?"

Somehow, having someone else bring it up made him feel less defensive. It should have been more awkward to discuss, but if Greg was taking it in stride, he could too. "Not in front of my eyes, but behind them," he tried to explain, "It's more associative."

Greg grinned. "So I get to paint what's in your head? That's even better." He leaned over and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s temple for emphasis. Then he followed up with the next query, the one Mycroft had been dreading with the spreading awareness. "So I read that there's a link between sensory processing and the autism spectrum." It wasn’t precisely a question, but an open-ended request for confirmation. There was a pointed lack of interrogative inflection at the end, just a mild anticipatory tension. _No pressure_ , thought Mycroft. _Oh. He knows_.

Mycroft waited a beat and nodded. He was rewarded with another kiss.

"Wondered," was all Gregory said about it. Then: "Do you want to start with the phlox?"

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I was kinda hinting at this, but I didn't quite have the nerve to write it overtly. Thanks to Songlin for encouragement, and to Sherlock Rare Ship Bingo for giving me a perfect prompt excuse. It's probably going to be another miniseries. Awfully sorry. :D


End file.
